Ms Sherlock Holmes
by SooshiRoll
Summary: Sherlock is actually a girl's name... fem!Sherlock AU
1. Chapter 1

_[A/N] Okay idk why I'm starting this. I'm not sure if I'll ever finish the whole thing. The beginning is rather boring, I'm afraid__. It's almost identical to the actual show and I plan on changing things up later as I go along. Just stick with me!_

**Chapter 1**

**Ms. Sherlock Holmes**

"John. You're a soldier. And it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

"Nothing happens to me."

**-oOo-**

"John! John Watson! Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."

The war veteran turned to the other man. "Yes, hello. Hi."

"I heard you were off somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?"

John Watson looked down briefly. "I got shot."

**-oOo-**

"I dunno. You could get a flatshare or something.."

"Come on. Who'd want _me_ for a flatmate?"

Mike said nothing, just laughed softly.

"What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who was the first?"

"Her name's Sherlock. Nice girl. She's a bit odd, but you'll like her."

"Hold on. You want me to share a flat… with a girl."

Mike shrugged. "It's not as weird as it sounds. She probably won't even notice you're there."

John grabbed his cane and stood up. "Well, let's go see just how weird this Sherlock is. Where is she?"

"St. Bart's, probably."

**-oOo-**

The hospital hadn't changed a bit on the outside, but when they walked in the laboratory, John was surprised. "Bit different from my day." More technological advances had been made, and everything looked more sterile and clinical. A black-haired woman was sitting at a microscope. She was wearing a cleanly pressed blouse with a skirt, the top two buttons casually undone. She obviously cared little about her hair, as it was merely brushed, her curly locks tumbling down her back. Her lips were a soft pink, and she wore no makeup. Without looking up, she said, "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

John rolled his eyes. If Sherlock was always this pretentious, there was no way John would have anything to do with her.

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

"Here, use mine."

Sherlock looked up for the first time and John was taken aback. Her eyes were a startling pale blue. He felt like every part of him was exposed somehow, like she was reading everything he was off of a book. "Oh. Thank you." She stood up and began walking towards him.

Mike cleared his throat. "He's an old friend of mine, John Watson."

Taking the phone from my hand, Sherlock asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" so quietly John could barely hear her.

"Sorry?" Had he said anything about the war? John glanced over at Mike, but he just smiled knowingly.

"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked, loudly enough for John to hear every word of Sherlock's rich voice.

"Uh… Afghanistan. I'm sorry How did you – " John cut off as a brunette woman walked in with a cup of coffee.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." Exchanging the phone for the coffee, Sherlock walked back to his laptop. "How do you feel about the violin?"

John looked back at Molly, but it was clear she wasn't talking to her. "Sorry what?"

"Do you have hearing problems? I play the violin when I'm thinking. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." She snapped her head in John's direction and shot him a smile that was obviously insincere.

John's eyes darted back and forth between the strange woman and Mike. "You told him about me?"

Mike shook his head. "Not a word."

"Then… who said anything about flatmates?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh and shook her head. People were terribly dull sometimes. "I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult person to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

John blinked a couple of times before responding. "And, uh, how exactly did you know about Afghanistan?"

Sherlock continued to ignore his question and checked her phone. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock." She fixed her scarf and straightened her coat. "Sorry – I've gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

'Riding crop? Mortuary?' "Is that it?"

She faced back toward John again and stood in front of him, with hands in her coat pockets. "Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"

"Problem?" Sherlock looked like she genuine didn't see any issues with the proposition.

John smiled disbelievingly and looked at Mike. "We don't know anything about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your full name."

Sherlock paused and stared at him hard with those piercing blue eyes. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalidated home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic – more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks you limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid."

John said nothing but shifted his weight between his feet.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" She pivoted to her right and walked out of the door. A mere second before the door closed, she poked her head back. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." With a wink, she disappeared.

John swallowed nervously and looked at Mike again in panic. He just grinned and said, "Yeah. She's always like that."

**-oOo-**

221B Baker Street. John stopped and pounded the knocker three times. Behind him, Sherlock got out of a cab. "Ms. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please." She reached out a hand and John shook it.

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive."

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no, I ensured it," Sherlock said, with another odd smile.

John couldn't say anything, however, as the door was opened by an elderly lady who reached for a hug from Sherlock. She gladly obliged. "Mrs, Hudson, Doctor John Watson."

"Oh, hello."

John smiled and nodded. Mrs. Hudson seemed normal enough compared to his potential new flatmate.

Sherlock bounded up the steps two at a time in an unladylike fashion as John struggled to fit both his legs and the cane through the narrow staircase. She waited in front of a door for him to reach the top.

The living room was small and cozy, yet cluttered with various boxes and lab equipment. Files and folders were strewn about and while there were several chairs and a couch, a grey armchair was the only one clear of junk. A violin perched haphazardly on the arm of the sofa but the bow was nowhere to be seen. Books were crammed into the two bookshelves and any other possible surface, and the kitchen was littered with dirty dishes and suspicious Petri dishes. "Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed."

Sherlock nodded with approval. "Yes, my thoughts precisely." She appraised the room in a single sweep and seemed pleased by what she saw.

John shrugged and said, "Soon as we get all of this rubbish cleaned out," simultaneously as Sherlock said, "So I went ahead and moved in." The two trailed off in John cleared his throat. "Yes, ahem. So this is all…"

"Well obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit…" Sherlock began to move around and began halfheartedly organizing empty envelopes and folders.

John frowned and pointed at a skull on the mantelpiece. "That's a skull. A human skull. What's it doing on the mantelpiece?"

Sherlock whirled around, glad for a distraction from her horrible attempt at cleaning. "Ah, yes. Friend of mine… Well, I say 'friend'…" She took off her coat and scarf and laid them down on a chair, only making the room seem more disorganized.

Mrs. Hudson bustled into the room and she too started picking up dirty cups and saucers. "What do you think, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

John frowned. "Of course we'll be needing two."

"Well, I suppose it was a small hope that Sherlock had finally found someone." Mrs. Hudson chuckled. John's mouth opened and shut a few times but Sherlock was absorbed in whatever was written in a file, oblivious to the insignificant chattering of him and Mrs. Hudson. "Oh, Sherlock, look at the mess you've made."

John cleared away the books that were on the second armchair and plopped himself down. "So, the Science of Deduction?"

Sherlock didn't glance up from her laptop. "I take it you've been doing some research? Good. You're not totally hopeless then. What did you think?"

He rolled his eyes. "You can seriously do all of that? Just look at a person and know every detail about him?"

Sherlock threw him a look that just screamed of arrogance. "Just like how I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your cellphone."

"How?"

She smirked and went back to her laptop.

Mrs. Hudson came out of the kitchen scanning a newspaper article. "Sherlock, have you seen the news? Three suicides, all exactly the same. I thought it would be right up your street."

Sherlock said nothing, as was her habit, and looked out the window. "Four, Mrs. Hudson. But it's different this time."

Mrs. Hudson looked up from the paper in surprise. "Four?"

John frowned for what felt like the thousandth time that day. "Different? How do you know?"

But Sherlock was already moving. Picking up her coat and scarf in one fluid movement she turned expectantly towards the open door. A middle aged man in a suit burst through the door, breathing hard. "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

The man paused for a second to catch his breath. "This one left a note. Can you help?"

"I don't know. Can I?"

"This is no time for games, Sherlock."

"Fine. Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

"That idiot. He won't do."

"Well, it's not like he's going to be your assistant."

"I _need_ an assistant."

"Just… will you please come?"

Sherlock sighed. "Not in a police car. I'm not a criminal. I'll catch a cab."

"Thank you." And the man was gone.

John's head was buzzing. The short exchange had left more questions than answers. As soon as the man, obviously a police officer left, Sherlock bounced up and down in an uncharacteristic display of happiness. "Brilliant! Four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas! Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper, dear."

"Oh, something cold will do. John, make yourself at home, and DON'T touch anything." She picked up a purse from the messy kitchen table and vanished.

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Will you look at her? Always dashing about. My husband used to say I was the same."

John internally grimaced at the insinuation that he and Sherlock were a couple. As far as he could tell, Sherlock didn't even know what a couple was.

"I'll make you that cuppa. You sit down and make yourself at home."

"Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you."

"But just this once. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper, dear."

"I wouldn't mind some biscuits, either."

"Landlady!"

John read the article about the third suicide. A smaller picture of the man who had come earlier showed the caption "DI Lestrade, in charge of the investigation".

"You're a doctor. An army doctor."

Sherlock had returned and was leaning against the doorway. "Yes."

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"So you've seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths, blood and gore."

"Enough for a lifetime."

"A bit of trouble too, I suppose."

"Too much."

"Wanna see some more?"

John smirked. "Oh God, yes."

Sherlock spun around in her abrupt way and started down the stairs. Before John followed, he told Mrs. Hudson, "Sorry, I'll have to take a rain check on the tea. I'm off."

"You're leaving too?"

Sherlock grinned. "Four suicides, all with the same exact conditions and one note? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something _fun_ going on!" She kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Look at you, all so happy. It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on! Come on, John!"

**-oOo-**

"You have some questions?"

"Um, yes. Where exactly are we going?"

"A crime scene. I thought it'd be fairly obvious by now."

"Okay then what do you do? Why did DI Lestrade come to you?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd have to say private detective, but police don't go to private detectives for help, do they?"

"No, I'm a consulting detective. Don't bother looking it up. I'm the only one, seeing as I invented the job."

"And what is a consulting detective?"

"I'm the person the police come to when they can't solve crimes themselves, which happens an embarrassingly large amount of times."

"But you're an amateur."

"Really?" She smirked knowingly. "Yesterday, I asked you 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know? Did Mike really not tell you?"

"All I do, John, is some fancy guess work. Your haircut, your posture, it all screams military. But when you entered the lab, you said 'Bit different from my day.' Why would you say that if you hadn't been in here frequently a long time ago? If you had trained at Bart's, you would have to be an Army doctor – that one was quite easy. Your tan lines indicate that you've been abroad in a sunny place, but not intentionally sunbathing. When walking, your limp's really bad but you never ask for a chair, as if you've forgotten about it. So if it's psychosomatic, then that means you were probably wounded in action. If you add the tan to the injury, it's obvious you were at war – Afghanistan or Iraq."

"But how did you know – sorry, guess – about the therapist?"

"Don't be stupid, you've got a psychosomatic limp. Even Scotland Yard could have guessed that. But moving on to your brother. Your phone is expensive, but you're looking for a flatshare – obviously trying to save money. Then why would you pay for this phone? That means that this was a gift, but a hand-me-down. You don't seem like the type of person to be careless about such an expensive phone so this belonged to someone before you. And now, the engraving.

_Harry Watson  
From Clara  
xxx_

Harry Watson. Clearly a family member. If you include all of the facts, it most likely belonged to your brother. Too technological for an elderly father and as you're unable to find a home you don't have any close extended relatives. Who's Clara? Three x's, so someone of a romantic attachment to Harry. The expense says wife, not girlfriend. This model is rather new, so it's only been given to him recently. But if he's given it away after only six months, that must mean the marriage has gone through some turbulence. Since he wanted to get rid of it, that must mean he was the one who broke off the relationship, and he gave it to you so you could stay in touch. However, because you're not looking to live with him, that must mean you've got some family issues. Maybe you don't like his drinking."

"And how could you _possibly_ know about the drinking?"

Sherlock smirked. She was obviously loving every bit of the attention she was getting. "The charging port has little scuffs and scratches around it. He can't plug it in correctly because, in his inebriated state, his hands are shaking."

John stared awestruck at Sherlock. "That was… amazing."

She frowned and looked puzzled. "You really think so?"

"It was brilliant. Quite extraordinary."

"You know, that's not what people normally say."

"Then what do they say?"

"Piss off!"

The war veteran snorted and the consulting detective hid her grin behind the stern façade she always wore.

"Did I miss anything?"

"Well, Harry and I haven't ever gotten along. Harry and Clara are getting a divorce, and Harry is a drinker."

"But…"

"Harry's short for Harriet."

"Harry's your sister. God damn it." Sherlock's whispered mutterings of "Sister!" and various curses continued all the way to the crime scene.

_[A/N] Thanks for reading! Leave a review or something! :D_


	2. Chapter 2

[A/N]

Wow. Some of you actually want me to continue this thing. I'm really and truly honored. Thank you so much!

About a week after I posted the first chapter I decided to check up on it and see if there were any reviews. Y'know, some constructive criticism for any future stories and stuff, because I really didn't plan on writing a second chapter. I had no idea where this was going, and I still don't, like an early life crisis. I was overly stressing about things like "Should I have some hetero johnlock in there? Then what am I going to do about Mary later on? Without Mary, the whole Magnussen arc falls apart! What do I do?" But I realized that's not until Series 3, so i decided to just see where I end up later on and wing it for now. Bear with me, as this will be something I will be doing in my few stolen moments of spare time and might not be updated as quickly as other fics written by much more qualified writers.

If you find any errors or have any questions with this story, please feel free to ask. I don't bite. (:

Thank you for supporting me, and I promise I will do my utmost best to write fabulously!

**Chapter 2**

**Welcome Back, Doctor Watson**

"Look, can you shut up about Harry already?"

Sherlock did, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "For the time being. We're here."

The house was blocked off by police cars and some tape. A young woman was standing guard in between the police cars, and by her impatient expression, she was expecting them. She looked about mid-twenties, with curly black hair and a professional attitude. "Well, look who finally showed up. Freak." She obviously loathed Sherlock. John assumed it was a one of those petty fights between women but it was also very likely it was just Sherlock in general.

The offending woman in question remained her emotionless mask. "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?"

"Because, Sally. I'm just that irresistible." She ducked under the police tape and straightened her coat. "You smell lovely today. Have you changed your deodorant lately?"

Sally didn't bother to answer and pointed at John. "And who is this? Your new project? A pet?"

John frowned. "Um, excuse me."

Sherlock cleared her throat. "He's a… colleague of mine." She turned to John. "Doctor John Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. She's an old friend."

John grinned. "Like the skull?"

"Yes, very much so."

John ducked under the tape and followed Sherlock to the front doors. A forensics specialist stopped Sherlock and looked her in the eye. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Do you understand?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Of course, Anderson, if it isn't already contaminated by you horribly incompetent 'specialists'. May I ask how long your wife has been away?"

Anderson scoffed, "Oh, not this again. Who told you?"

"Deodorant."

Anderson looked confused. "And how did you get that from deodorant?"

"I'm the world's only consulting detective, Anderson. But, if you really are _dying_ to know, your deodorant is for men."

"Of course it is. I'm wearing it!"

"So's Sergeant Donavan." Sherlock cleared her throat and started walking towards the door again.

Anderson looked one step away from causing someone bodily harm. "Whatever you're trying to imply, Sherlock…"

"Oh, I am most definitely not implying anything. Sally clearly just dropped in for a cuppa and just happened to stay over. Good night." Before Sherlock entered the house she turned back around to where Anderson and Sergeant Donovan were still standing in mute horror. "Sally, have you ever considered finding work as a maid? Anderson's floors must be scrubbed very nicely, judging by the state of our knees." With that, Sherlock disappeared and John followed quickly.

"Did you have to do that? Was that absolutely necessary?" John had to walk very fast to keep up with Sherlock's long legs.

"Oh, I don't do anything unless it's of the utmost importance, John."

**-oOo-**

They stopped at a room full of people in blue coveralls. D.I. Lestrade was putting one on as they entered. "John. You need to wear one of these hideous things."

"Who's this? Only authorized personnel are allowed here. It's hard enough getting you in every time."

"He's with me."

"But who is he?"

"I said he's with me." Sherlock snapped on a pair of sterile latex gloves.

"Sherlock, aren't you going to wear one of these?" John glanced up from trying to get his foot through the pant leg. She gave one hard look at John before he realized what a stupid question that was. Of course the amazing Sherlock would never lower herself to such base standards like preserving evidence.

Brisk as ever, she asked, "So, where are we?"

Lestrade pulled on his own pair of gloves and zipped up his coveralls. "Upstairs."

**-oOo-**

"Two minutes. That's all I can give you."

"Might need a bit longer."

Jennifer Wilson was found by a few children. She was lying face down in an old derelict room dressed completely in pink. Sherlock remained in thought for a few seconds before moving and put her mind to work.

The woman had scratched the letters "r-a-c-h-e" into the wooden floorboards with her left hand. Left-handed. Rache, in German, meant revenge. She could also have been spelling out Rachel, most likely a family member. The back of her coat. Wet. The umbrella. Dry. The collar of the coat. Wet. Her jewelry. Clean. Her wedding and engagement rings. Dirty. Unhappily married 10+ years. The inside of the ring. Clean. The outside of the ring. Dirty. Conclusion? Regularly removed.

Diagnosis? Serial adulterer.

1 minute and ten seconds.

She smiled.

"Got anything?"

Sherlock took out her phone and began typing away furiously. "Nothing much."

Anderson suddenly appeared behind the three, trying to offer a suggestion. "She's German. Rache is German for 'revenge'. Maybe she's trying to tell us something."

"Yes, yes, yes. Why don't you go find Donovan and discuss keeping her deodorant at your house from now on?" She slammed the door.

John hid a grin as sounds of protest could be heard from the other side. "Is she really German?"

"No. For future reference, don't listen to Anderson. His idiocy will poison your mind unless you take active measures." Sherlock continued tapping her phone. "What do you think, John?"

"What, me?"

"No, I was talking to the body – of course you. Do you see another John in here? You're a doctor. Surely you must have some idea."

"Sherlock, I have a team ready outside," Lestrade said.

"They won't work with me."

"Then figure out how to work with someone, instead of just complaining about having no assistant." Lestrade looked fairly fed up with Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled, and John thought smiles looked nice on Sherlock if they weren't fake. "That's exactly what Dr. Watson is here for. Dr. Watson, if you will."

"Sherlock, no. You're not even technically allowed here."

"Alright then. This case seems easy. Scotland Yard could probably figure it out. Good night, Lestrade." She cleared her throat and stood up.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Oh, for god's sake. Sit down, Sherlock. Dr. Watson, please go ahead." He poked his head out the door where Anderson was apparently still stewing over Sherlock's cold-hearted refusal of his assistance. "Anderson. Stop sulking and keep everyone out for the next minute or so."

Sherlock and John were crouched on opposite sides of the victim's body, but John just stared at the corpse. He couldn't fathom how Sherlock managed to take in so much detail in so little time. It was, simply put, astounding. "Why exactly am I here?"

"To prove a point?"

"What point? I'm supposed to help you pay the rent, not looking at dead bodies."

"You have to admit, this is more fun than drinking tea with Mrs. Hudson."

"Fun? Sherlock, a woman is lying on the floor and she's not exactly alive."

Sherlock shrugged. "Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper. Is that seriously it?"

John groaned and sighed. He leaned down to inspect the corpse like Sherlock had, taking a big sniff. "Well, um, asphyxiation? She passed out and choked on her vomit, but I can't smell any alcohol. It might be a seizure or drugs."

"Not bad, compared to some of the others here," Before John could even manage a proud look, Sherlock smirked. "But still not insightful enough." She stood in one fluid, graceful movement.

Shaking his head, John struggled to push himself upwards with his cane. Lestrade cleared his throat. "Okay, Sherlock. Your two minutes are up. Give me what you got."

"Victim is in her late thirties. Probably a professional person, unless she dressed up for the occasion. That shade of pink is atrocious. I prefer a pastel pink myself, but even then in moderation. The only sane women who would wear so much are women in some sort of occupation relating to media. She's from Cardiff, and she's staying in London for... one night, by the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?"

Ignoring Lestrade's question, Sherlock continued. "She's been married for around 10 years, but she's had multiple lovers. Obviously none knew she was married."

"Obviously?" This time it was John who interjected. Surprisingly, Sherlock deigned to answer John.

"Her wedding ring's been taken off often. It's old and dirty, which is exactly the state of her marriage. The inside of the ring is shiny, but the outside is dull and scratched. The only polishing it gets is when she pulls it off of her finger. She doesn't take it off for work, her nails are nicely done so she doesn't do anything that requires hands. So what does she remove her rings for? Not just one lover, because she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time. Simple, if you look in the right places."

John's eyes were wide in awe. "Wow. That's… brilliant." When Sherlock and Lestrade turned to him, he flushed. "Sorry."

There was a point that Lestrade couldn't figure out. "Why Cardiff?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No. It's why I'm asking."

Sherlock took on a look of horror. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains. It must be so boring. And terribly dull." She gestured to the bright pink coat. "Her coat, gentlemen. Her coat's slightly damp. She's been in the rain, but there's no rain anywhere in London. The underside of the coat collar is damp too; she's turned it up. The umbrella in her pocket is dry, and unused, as far as I can tell. So it was too windy to use the umbrella, and since her coat still hasn't dried, she was in the rain for a few hours. Her suitcase shows that she was planning to stay the night here. Now where is the only place around here with strong winds and rain and within a few hours?" She reached into her pocket and showed the men why she had been typing away on her phone earlier. It was a weather map for the past 3 hours, and the only green and yellow splotches were above a city east of London. "Cardiff."

John's mouth was literally gaping. "That's fantastic!"

Lestrade frowned. "Do you know you're doing that out loud?"

John's blush was a violent shade of crimson. "Sorry, sorry. I'll shut up now."

Slipping her phone back into her coat pocket, Sherlock said, "Yes, please do," but Lestrade could tell she was secretly pleased at the flattery.

"And why do you keep talking about that suitcase?"

"Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone, or an organizer of some sort. Have someone find out who Rachel is."

"How do you know it's Rachel or not Rache like Anderson said?"

"Yes, she was most likely leaving a vengeful note in _German_, of all languages. _Of course_ she was writing Rachel, don't be stupid. The question is why didn't she write it until she was dying?"

"How do you know there was a suitcase in the first place?"

Sherlock pointed distractedly at the woman's stockings. "The splashes from the wheels; she was dragging the suitcase with her right hand. A bag of that size and a woman with a desire to wear such appalling clothes would only point towards an overnight bag. Probably had some other color coded outfit like lime green in there. Where is the suitcase?

"There was no suitcase Sherlock. Why do you think I'm even asking you?"

"Well, to be fair, you ordinary people are strong advocates of endless repetition. I assumed this was one of those occasions."

Lestrade gave a frustrated sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "There. Was. No. Case. There never was any case."

Sherlock bolted up and started dashing down the stairs. "Suitcase! Has anyone seen a suitcase?"

John slowly made his way to the top of the stairs with Lestrade. "I told you Sherlock, for the millionth time, there was no suitcase."

"I really did hear the first time. The victims take the pills themselves. They chew and swallow the pills all on their own. Even you and your teams could figure it out."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Thanks. And your point is…?"

"But no, these are murders, every one of them. Serial killings. Oh, those are always so much fun!" Sherlock kept whirling through the house. "Come one, her suitcase. She wouldn't have left it at her hotel – she hasn't even gone to her hotel yet." She stopped her constant movement for a second. "Oh."

"Oh? Now what?"

Sherlock clapped her hands and did the same happy dance she did back at Baker Street. Apparently the only thing that made her happy was either a). Murders, or b). Serial murders. The latter was preferred. "Oh, as in oh, yes, John. Serial killers are always difficult. You have to wait for them to make a mistake, you see."

Lestrade yelled from the top of the stairs, "We don't have time to just _wait_, Sherlock!"

"No, we're done waiting. There's been a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake. Go to Cardiff and find out who Rachel is. Pointless, but at least you'll have something to do." She practically fell down the stairs.

"What mistake?" Lestrade was left calling to thin air.

Sherlock retraced her steps and yelled back, "PINK!"

**-oOo-**

"Sherlock's gone. She does that."

"Well, is she coming back?" John had finally managed to struggle out of his coveralls but Sherlock's black cab had long gone.

Sally scoffed. "Does she ever? Look, who are you? You're not her friend. That _psychopath_ doesn't have friends."

"I don't know. I just met her."

Sally laughed. "There's your first mistake. Stay away from her. Far away."

"Why?"

"Why do you think she shows up to these crime scenes? She likes it. Some weird murder and you can bet your mum's grave that she'll be there. She gets off on it, she does. One day, it won't be enough. One day, there's going to be a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."

"And why would she do that?"

"Psychopaths are unpredictable, Dr. Watson. Stay away." She walked into the building.

John shrugged his shoulders and walked towards the main road to get a cab. To his right, a public telephone rang. He glanced at it, but continued walking. Every telephone he saw on his way to the road rang, but stopped when he passed them. John felt a cold shiver reaching down his spine. Public telephones ringing: it only happened in those horror movies he rarely watched. Finally, he gave up and answered the fifth telephone down the road with quite a bit of apprehension. "Hello?"

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

"Who is this? Is this a prank?"

"The camera, Dr. Watson. Do you see it?"

The cold chill returned. John looked up and saw that there was, in fact, a CCTV camera on the wall. He cleared his throat to stop any sound of fear coming out. "Yes. I see it."

"Now watch." The camera turned to where it was no longer pointed toward the telephone box. "There's another camera and the opposite building. Do you see it?"

"Yes." The camera turned away.

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right."

John looked at the swiveling camera. "Who are you? How are you doing this?"

"Get in the car, Dr. Watson." A black car had stopped in front of the telephone box. "I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

John set the phone down. Now that he knew it wasn't some story straight out of a horror movie, his fear dissipated. He had his gun; he never went anywhere without it. If things turned ugly… well, he had shot his gun before.

**-oOo-**

A very attractive woman sat tapping away on her BlackBerry phone, and she gave no indication that she noticed him.

"Hello."

She smiled at John, and her teeth almost blinded him. "Hi."

"What's your name?"

The woman appeared deep in thought before answering. "… Anthea."

"And is that your real name?"

She smiled. "No."

John nodded. Figured anyone he met nowadays was weird. Hopefully she wasn't as bad as Sherlock. "I'm John."

"I know."

"Is there any point in asking where I'm going?"

"None at all, John." She flashed her blindingly white smile at him again before returning to her phone.

**-oOo-**

John squared his shoulders and entered the abandoned warehouse. A well-dressed man was leaning on an umbrella in the center of the room, and a thin shaft of light from the window illuminated the ground around him. Very dramatic. "Hello, John." His voice was very smooth. John was no Sherlock, but even he could tell that this was someone who talked and manipulated for a living. Someone powerful who controlled others through simple words. "Your leg must be hurting you. Please. Sit down."

"I have a phone, you know. A very functional phone. You could have phoned me."

"Apologies, I've always had a touch of theatricality, and when one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet,. Hence this place." The man stopped leaning on his umbrella and began pacing the room. "You don't seem very frightened."

"You don't seem very frightening."

The man laughed. "Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

"Then you must be braver than me."

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson?" His manner had changed. Before it seemed like idle banter, or as idle as it could get in an abandoned warehouse. Now his tone seemed more threatening, as if this was when the real business began.

"I barely know her. We met yesterday. "

The man arched an eyebrow. "And since… yesterday, you've decided to move in with her and solve crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Who exactly are you?"

"An… interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met her. How many 'friends' do you think she has? I am the closest thing to a friend as she is capable of having."

"And what is that?"

"An enemy."

This time John was the one to arch an eyebrow. "An enemy?"

"Well, in her mind, most definitely. If you asked her, she'd probably say I am her arch-enemy. She does enjoy drama."

John stared pointedly at his surroundings. "Well thank God you're above all of that." John's mobile phone beeped. He looked briefly at the text message.

_Baker Street.  
Come at once if convenient.  
SH_

John had no idea how Sherlock had gotten his number. No doubt, if she was anything like the man standing in front of him, she went through some illegal means.

With a sickly saccharine smile, the man said, "I hope I'm not distracting you."

"No, no, not at all." He placed the phone back in his pocket.

"Do you plan to continue your current association with Ms. Holmes?"

"I could be wrong.. but I think that's none of your business," John said with more than a touch of sarcasm.

"Well, Dr. Watson, if you do plan on moving into 221B Baker Street, I'd be more than willing to provide a significant amount of compensation to ease your way. On a regular basis, of course."

"In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet, nothing you'd feel... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what she's up to."

"Why?"

"I worry about her. Constantly."

John rolled his eyes. "Well that's very nice of you."

"But, I would rather you not tell her about my concern. We have what you might call a,,, difficult relationship, if you will."

John's mobile beeped again.

_If inconvenient, come anyway.  
SH_

John smiled for a split second before putting the phone back up. "No. Not a chance."

"I haven't even mentioned a figure yet."

"Don't need to hear one."

"You're very loyal, very quickly."

"No, no. I'm just not interested."

The man pulled out a notebook and consulted it. "It says here that you have trust issues. Could it be that you have decided to trust _Sherlock Holmes_, out of all people?"

John's mind flashed back to the last therapy session with Ella. "Who says I trust her?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily." He gestured to John's left hand. "People have undoubtedly warned you away from her, but your left hand tells me that is not going to happen."

'Oh great, another Sherlock.' "What do you mean by that?"

"Show me," the man said, clearly referring to his hand. He leaned against his umbrella again, and waited for John to present his hand like an obedient servant.

John remained where he was, feet firmly planted on the ground. When he was like this, nothing short of a grenade could move him. The military had made certain of that.

The man sighed and yielded to John's stubbornness. "Quite remarkable."

John could barely keep the hiss out of his voice. He had had enough of people knowing so much more about him than himself. "What is?"

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by the memories of your military service. But she's not quite right, is she?"

"Who the _hell_ are you?! How do you know that? How do you know any of this?"

"You should fire her. She's completely wrong. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady." He drew closer to John's ear. "You're not haunted by the war. You miss it." When John's eyes met his, he grinned. "Welcome back, Doctor Watson."

Thanks to:

**Azalea Nightshade Discordia, FloraFaveXNara-Wire, Jesssam, KittyInBoyShorts, Metal-Unicorn, Nataly SkyPot, Reedy-Girl, SWEETVANILLAFAN, Vividlove, ****srosegarden****, Luckyirishlass98. MAdame Cross Marian, MissMinoque999, RynNightShade, RyeNeko, UEAcon, hislop17, mayflower55, moonwhiteangel, nanatic, **and**tibreezy**

for their reviews, favorites, and follows! Hugs and kisses to you all!


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